


An Incomplete Guide to Loving Neil Josten

by alex_wh0



Category: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: Andrew is soft, M/M, Neil is soft, This is not a comprehensive list
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-27
Updated: 2020-03-27
Packaged: 2021-02-28 23:28:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23341729
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alex_wh0/pseuds/alex_wh0
Summary: What it says on the box
Relationships: Neil Josten/Andrew Minyard
Comments: 14
Kudos: 242





	An Incomplete Guide to Loving Neil Josten

**Don’t distract him from an Exy game; he’ll ignore you harder**

On the television, on his laptop, in the stands, on the court – never try to take his attention from an Exy game. He will not like it. You will be subjected to the subtle downturn of his lips, annoyed glances, sharp exhales and rolling of eyes.

If you go further, you might witness door slamming, pointed remarks and a chorus of “what do you want now?” in a variety of modulations. Oh, and never ever mention baseball in front of him. He will forgive you, but it might take a while. You’ll find it secretly amusing, but at what cost?

**Don’t get him chocolate, he prefers strawberries**

When he complains that the fridge is laden with just sweets, push the chocolate cake aside and load it with cartons of fruit instead, and watch his face light up the next morning. When you go on your next ice cream run, get him a couple of pints of sorbet so that both of you have something to sweet to taste post dinner.

When the store around the corner puts up their chocolate-covered strawberries on sale, get the whole lot so that you can lick the chocolate from his mouth later. You like the taste of strawberries as long as it’s second-hand, but there’s no reason to tell him that.

**When he flinches at his reflection, kiss his shoulder to ground him**

Mirrors, car windows, puddles of water, the back of a spoon – if it reflects, he’ll dodge it. But if one morning, when you pad into the washroom and find him standing rigid and tense in front of the bathroom mirror, icy eyes blank, breaths quiet and fast, fists curled and jaw tight, call out to him softly, stand in the periphery of his vision and make sure he sees you.

Then proceed to stand behind him so that when he sags in relief, you’re there to catch him. Kiss the scars on his shoulder so that he knows that it’s him in the mirror, not his father. He will take a minute, a two, a hundred, but he will eventually turn around and look at you. He’ll say thank you, you’ll gently cuff his ear and pull him out for coffee.

**Admire his smart mouth; he secretly likes it that you do**

The days he is on press duty are the only days you’ll come to a game on time. You know it, he knows it, everyone knows it. If you have a sneaking suspicion that he mouths off at reporters only to see your lips twitch, then you are absolutely right. He likes seeing you smirk, you like giving him what he wants. Win-win, right? Right.

**He says he hates the clothes you get him, but secretly likes them anyway**

He’ll fidget around, say “they’re too tight, do you NOT want me to breathe?”, pull at his sleeves and make a face, but both him and you know that he likes it when you drag your gaze down his chest and abs, briefly lingering at his waist before charting your way up his arms and shoulders and neck, slowly, appreciatively, taking in his flushed cheeks and blown eyes. You don’t mind the grumbling, you find it endearing.

Later, he’ll push you onto the bed and slowly strip them off himself, one by one until both of you are flushed and panting. He’ll make a face at the pile on the floor before straddling your thighs, and tell you that he hates it. But Neil Josten is a liar and no one knows that better than you.

**He’ll tense for a second when he wakes up; let him**

Most nights, he has a slight furrow between his eyebrows – the only indication that his mind is running a hundred miles per hour, refusing to let him sleep in peace. Some nights, he’ll wake up in a cold sweat, panting harshly, scrabbling at the sheets and you hate the demons that distress him.

Every morning, right before he is fully conscious, his whole body will tense like he is bracing himself for impact, before melting into the bed. He will unfailingly turn his head to his right to look for you, exhaling in relief when he finds you. Your heart will unfailingly stutter in response every morning. He will smile. You will sigh inwardly, the relief sweet and immediate.

**He loves fiercely, with everything he’s got; treasure it**

His love language is quiet, soft and sweet – an extra pint of ice cream in the freezer set aside for bad days, keeping quiet when you can’t bear the sound of people talking, a shield when you want to hide, the questions that don’t come, the solid support, the gentle hands, urgent kisses and the blinding smile that you hate, hate and _hate_.

You see the way his protective hackles rise when someone dares to come near you or the Foxes. You call it his martyr complex, he calls you an obstinate fool. Both of you know what it means, but don’t say it out loud. His actions are loud enough, as it is.

**Always light two cigarettes, he’s a smoke junkie**

You’ve grown used to it, lighting a cigarette for yourself, and lighting one more to see the smoke curl onto his face. You see him inhale, his chest rising and falling gently, you see the wistful expression that always flashes past briefly, and his scarred fingers that cup the cigarette close to his face.

Somewhere along the way, you stopped calling it a waste of nicotine. Now, you light an extra one even when he’s not around. You feel the looping tendrils of smoke make the distance seem bearable.

**When he wants to run, let him; he’ll always come back**

Old habits die hard, and runners are no different. You know the shape and texture of his worn-out duffel bag by now, you know there are two pairs of pants and two pairs of shirts – one grey, one a faded white, four pairs of boxers, a knife and a roll of bills tucked away in a frayed sock. You know what it means, but you also know what it doesn’t mean.

Every time he gets agitated, he’ll pull on his shoes and run himself raw, secure in the belief that you’ll come find him anyway. You know you will. You’ll call him a rabbit, but the fondness in your tone replaced the intent many, many months ago. Let him run, he’ll come back. Always.

**He loves you**

He fucking loves you. And you love him right back.

**Author's Note:**

> There's an Andrew guide coming soon!


End file.
